


sudden and sweet

by tgrsndshrks



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Bladder Control, Blow Jobs, Desperation, Dom/sub, M/M, Omorashi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 04:46:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8432386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgrsndshrks/pseuds/tgrsndshrks
Summary: “You gonna make it?” Tim asks, and John notices in the fluorescent light that the filter of Tim's cigarette has red lipstick on it.
  or, the sequel to hold me down that no one asked for, this time with more inconveniences to housekeeping.





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween y'all here's the sequel to hold me down nobody fucking asked for!!!
> 
> this is supposed to be a sequel/follow up to hold me down, but it can totally be read separately. though i don't know why you'd want to read one and not the other. whatevs i'm not ur boss
> 
> shout out to my partner in piss eve for encouraging me to do this despite the fact that she doesn't read mm fic. 
> 
> also, an unrelated note, my friend devon made a playlist for traces of me in your veins!! so if you liked that fic go check it out; i linked his playlist in the notes.
> 
> title from evidence by marilyn manson because i thoroughly enjoy ruining my fave songs by titling fics from them.

The club is loud enough that Tim has to raise his voice a little for John to hear him. It's not unpleasantly crowded, either, all things considered. They're in Vegas on a day off. After a lot of pouting and begging and maybe a little bribery, Tim had managed to talk John into putting his guitar down long enough for them to get a few drinks.

Mercifully, it's dark enough that they make it to the bar without anyone recognizing them. Or maybe the other club-goers are too self involved to notice them. Not like they're the most notable members of their band, John figures. Tim's drink comes with a cherry in it and he feeds it to John.

“Reckon you could tie the stem with your tongue?” Tim remarks, and John takes that too. After a solid minute of fiddling, he spits it out, bent but nowhere near resembling a knot.

“Nope,” John says, flicking the stem at Tim. Tim pushes John's soda closer to him and he takes it, drinks.

They dance for a few songs, and John decides he likes Vegas because no one really gives them a second look. John's not sure if it's that nobody cares two men are dancing this close to each other or because John is wearing lipstick and he just looks feminine in the dark. He has no complaints either way. He backs himself up into Tim, soaking in his body heat till he eventually drags him back to the bar.

The cycle repeats. Drinks, dancing, drinks, dancing.

They're back at the bar again when John leans into Tim, mouth next to his ear, and asks, “Can I go take a leak?”

This isn't new for them. Well, not really. It's been a few weeks since this started, and it's become sort of a thing. John would ask permission to go to the toilet, and it was up to Tim to decide if he _really_ needed to go or not. Tim purses his lips, looks over at the bottles of booze behind the bar.

“How bad?” Tim asks.

“I dunno, like, a seven,” John says.

“Nah,” Tim says nonchalantly. John bites his lips together but nods. “You want another drink?”

John knows he has no say in the matter. Tim orders him another one before he can answer.

It's not that John regrets telling Tim about this thing of his. Tim had just taken to it a little more than John expected. He genuinely seemed to enjoy telling John no and watching him squirm, waiting till the last possible second for to let him go. It was like a switch in him had flicked that night, like John had reached in and turned a faucet on and now it was impossible to shut off the flow. Tim grins at him in that way that he always does, bringing his glass to his mouth. John drinks.

John can't help but notice Tim is matching his number of drinks. John doesn't know what that means, or if it means anything, but he notices.

They dance for a few more songs, and John's not exactly desperate, but the pressure is very much there. It's low, dull, like white noise. Not uncomfortable. Not yet.

After another pair of drinks though, it's gone from white noise to static. Annoying. Hard to ignore.

“Babe,” John says, turning around in Tim's hold to speak into his ear. “Can I go yet? Please? It's like, a solid nine now.”

“Not yet,” Tim says, and John whines audibly. Tim fails to stifle the giggle that comes out. “You can go when we get back to the hotel. How's that sound?” John swallows dryly, nodding. If he tried to protest Tim would probably make it even worse for him somehow. “Why don't we have just one more round of drinks and then we can go.” John's leg is fidgeting, won't stay still.

“Okay,” he says, and he sits at the nearest empty stool, crossing his legs tightly. Tim notices, his eyes looking at John's lap. John doesn't acknowledge it. He takes his drink when Tim slides it to him, and for a moment he just stares into the glass. John downs it. When he sets the glass back down on the bar and looks at Tim, Tim just nods once.

“I'll call a cab,” he says, and John follows him outside.

Tim lights a cigarette, holding it in his mouth as he makes his phone call, flicking the ashes with red painted fingers. John's focusing on anything to try to ignore the urgency in his insides, pacing back and forth as Tim leans nonchalantly against a street light. 

“You gonna make it?” Tim asks, and John notices in the fluorescent light that the filter of Tim's cigarette has red lipstick on it.

“Hopefully,” John says, fingers idling with the buttons on his shirt, the knot of his tie. He watches people walk past them, Tim the picture of casual, boots crossed as he drops his head back and sighs out smoke, watching John pace like a wound-up toy.

The cab, mercifully, arrives quickly. The perks of being in a tourist city, John figures.

Their hotel is on the strip, and what should be a quick drive ends up being a bumpy, lurching crawl. John's got one hand between his thighs, legs clamped closed around it, the other hand clenching the grip on the door. Tim's sitting close to him, smelling like cigarettes and Febreze. 

“D'you think we're more than halfway there?” Tim asks him, John's whole body tensing as his breath ghosts over his ear.

“I don't know,” John says, eyes looking out the window but not seeing. He can't focus. Tim's hand is on his thigh, too high, threatening to push on him from the outside. John shakes his head, shrinks away.

“You okay?” Tim asks, voice lower, earnest.

“Yeah,” John says, nodding. “It's just bad.”

“When we get out of the cab, we still have to get to the room,” Tim says quietly. John swallows dryly. “We gotta get through the lobby – and of course I can't let you use those toilets. That'd be cheating. Then up the elevator. I certainly hope it's empty for your sake.”

“Tim,” John says, jaw clenched tight.

“Down the hall to the room,” Tim continues, and John whines. “Then the bathroom. You better hope you can get it out in time.”

John just shifts in his seat as Tim's hand inches its way over.

“Is it bad if I don't want you to make it?” Tim whispers, hand flat on John's stomach, but not pressing. John shifts in the seat, body threatening to leak, eyes flickering to the cab driver and then Tim. He shakes his head. Tim smiles. The cab stops.

John carefully unfolds himself from the car, trying to keep himself together. Tim seems to take his sweet time, counting the cab fare out from the cash in his pocket, being careful to give exact change.

The hotel lobby is crowded. John's still aching, starting to physically hurt from holding for so long. Tim practically drags him to the empty elevator and John longingly eyes the men's room sign as the door closes. The second it's shut, Tim has John shoved against the wall.

“God, I fucking hate you,” Tim says, pressing up against John's body.

“You should not be the one saying that right now,” John says stiffly, refusing to relax as Tim slots their legs together, gasping when he feels Tim hard against him.

“You suffer so beautifully,” Tim says, the pressure of his thigh against John's bladder fucking agonizing. John whines, tries to close his legs, but Tim's is there in the way.

“I hate you too,” John says, voice small, craning his mouth closer to Tim's. “I'm not gonna make it.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, voice thin. “But you're so close. It'd be so embarrassing to lose it now. You'd just-”

The elevator dings and Tim stops, chewing into his lip and stepping back from John. There's no one outside waiting, and John starts off first, Tim following him. When John looks back, Tim's in his wallet again, taking his time looking for the room key. And when Tim fumbles and drops it and snorts a laugh, John's pretty sure it's on purpose.

_Beep._

The room door opens. John shoves Tim out of the way, rushes to the bathroom.

John almost makes it.

He gets into the bathroom and even gets the toilet lid up, but he fights with his belt for a second too long, only one prong making it out and the other one still through its hole. John knows it's happening the second his body betrays him – he groans in frustration and relief as it soaks him, piss drenching the fronts of black jeans, knees going weak. He grabs at the towel bar behind him, eyes turned down, the room quiet except for the hiss and spatter of piss hitting the tile floor. And it goes for what seems like forever, and when it's finally over, he feels eyes on him.

Tim's standing in the doorway, leaned against the door jamb, his fist over his mouth. He giggles. He fucking giggles.

“Damn,” Tim says. “I thought you were gonna make it for a second.”

“Fuck you,” John whines. “I'm mad at you.” Tim snorts.

“That was hot,” he says, tossing his wallet onto the countertop. Tim walks over to John, one hand undoing his belt and the other grabbing at John's hair. John gasps, bites back a smile. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Nah,” John says. He looks down at where Tim's pants are half open and John kneels, right in the mess he'd made, and Tim hisses out a little whimper.

“You're disgusting,” Tim says fondly.

John doesn't say anything this time. He just mouths wetly at Tim's cock, his hands tugging his pants down more, tongue working him over. Tim swears and grabs at the wall to steady himself as John takes him down. John sits up further on his knees, swallowing more, choking himself a little, before pulling back off and working a hand around him, slicking Tim's length with spit.

“How long have you been hard?” John asks, lifting Tim's cock to thumb the skin back, lick at newly exposed and sensitive bits.

“Fucking-” Tim chokes out, grabbing the counter. “Since we were at the bar. Jesus, John.” John closes his mouth around him and Tim grabs at his hair, holding him down. “I swear to fucking god.” John just moves on him, his mouth all wet heat, moaning around him. Tim gasps, guides his head a little by his hair. John doesn't mind – just lets Tim use his mouth for a long moment till he pulls out completely.

“You want me to swallow it?” John asks, voice fucked raw, and Tim just nods, too far gone to make words. John takes his cock by the base and works him quickly, mouth around his head.

“Ah,” Tim keens, which John assumes to mean he's close, so he presses his tongue up into Tim's cock and he feels him tense up and lose it, heat spilling into John's mouth. John takes it, swallows it down, moans around him, licks at him and mouths kisses over Tim's hip bone when he's done.

“I'm not mad at you anymore,” John announces, sitting back on his boots and looking up at Tim from where he's knelt in his accident.

“Move,” Tim says, nudging him with a boot. “I have to pee.”

John doesn't say anything. He doesn't move either. He looks at the toilet next to him, then up at Tim.

“Hey, so, Tim,” John says, as conversationally as possible.

“What,” Tim says, smearing his face and giving John the most annoyed look he can manage in his afterglow. John just looks at him.

“You get really stupid after you cum, you know that?” John says. Tim looks at him, and John sees the realization spread down his face. Tim almost sputters, and John grins, sitting up again.

“Are you asking me to piss on you?” Tim asks.

“Not asking,” John says. “I'm not moving from in front of the toilet so unless you have impeccable aim and can arc it right over me into it then.” He shrugs.

“Honestly,” Tim says, reaching down to line himself up, “you don't need to bribe me into it. Jeez.”

“I just thought I'd be bratty, y'know,” John says. “Since you're into that.”

“Stop talking,” Tim says, frowning. John closes his eyes and drops his head back, waits for it.

And waits.

After a long moment, John opens his eyes again, and Tim's still standing there, looking very focused. John looks at him.

“Don't look at me like that,” Tim says, glaring at him. “I'm fucking pee shy. I'm _trying_.”

“I knew there was _something_ ,” John remarks. “I knew you couldn't possibly be perfect. I've found your only flaw.”

“If you don't shut your mouth I'm gonna pee in it,” Tim says.

“Isn't that what we're trying to do?” John asks.

“Stop _talking_ ,” Tim whines. Not talking isn't one of John's strong suits, but he sighs, and instead of saying anything, he just opens his mouth.

Which, evidently, is the only convincing Tim's body needed.

The first of it hits the floor in front of John, splattering for a moment before John ducks forward to catch it. His hair sticks to his forehead, hot and wet running over his face and into his open mouth. John pushes his wet hair back, inching forward as the flow ebbs, fabric of his shirt clinging to him. He catches a mouthful, and when Tim finally stops, John spits his own piss right back on him.

“Oh my god,” Tim says, looking down at the drenched front of his jeans and wet shirttails. But John's giggling, and Tim just musses up his damp hair, letting it stick up. “If you didn't look so hot I'd yell at you for that.”

“C'mere,” John says, gesturing for Tim to get on the floor with him.

“No, gross,” Tim says.

“You already have pee _on_ you,” John says, grabbing at Tim's wrist, and Tim figures John's right, so he drops to a knee, sitting in the mess with him.

“Oh, god, it's cold and warm at the same time,” Tim says, shoulders tensing up as he sits.

“Get in the shower with me,” John says, climbing into Tim's lap. Which only ends up soaking him even more thoroughly. Tim whines as John starts kissing on his jaw.

“Y'know, I liked these jeans,” Tim says. John hums against his skin, considering it.

“I'll send 'em with the dry cleaning,” John says. Tim sighs. John tries for a kiss and Tim frowns, turning away from him.

“No, gross, don't kiss me with your blowjobby piss mouth,” Tim says, and John grabs his face.

“Stop moving,” John says. He plants a firm kiss on Tim's lips. “You love me even when I have a blowjobby piss mouth you ass.”

“You're still gross,” Tim says. John kisses him again. “Gross.”

“Yeah, gross, whatever,” John says. “I love you. Take a shower with me.” Tim sighs.

“I guess I have to, don't I?” Tim says, looking down at them, all black clothes gleaming in the shitty bathroom lighting. “I hate showering. I hate you.”

“C'mon, think about how nice I am when you're clean,” John says, raising his eyebrows at Tim. Tim seems to consider it, pressing his lips together in a line. “Think about the awesome _rim jobs_ ,” John whispers. Tim furrows his brows.

“Okay, fuck, fine,” Tim says, and John gets out of his lap, leans against the wall. He looks down at the mess, the puddle they'd left, and their soaked clothes.

“Remind me to leave a note apologizing to housekeeping before we check out, yeah?” John says.


End file.
